Cacophony
by sphere213
Summary: A riveting epic exploring an alternate dimension where Harry is a dark wizard, seen through the eyes of the many and the eyes of the one, the boy who lived.


Cacophony

Summary: A riveting epic exploring an alternate dimension where Harry is a dark wizard, seen through the eyes of the many and the eyes of the one, the boy who lived. Mostly original material.

PART I: Wand of the Basilisk, Wand of the Phoenix

PART II: The Rise of Lord Voldemort

PART III: The Hero

Intermission: Dumbledore

PART IV: A BOY NAMED HARRY

PART V: IN THE HOUSE OF THE SNAKE, IN THE HOUSE OF THE GRYFFIN

PART VI: DEADLY TRIALS

PART VII: THE HOLOCAUST OF THE WIZARDING WORLD

PART VIII: HARRY'S LAST CHANCE

PART IX: FIGHTING THE DARKNESS WITHIN

PART X: TWO BECOMES ONE

EPILOGUE: ONE BECOMES TWO

Part I: Wand of the Basilisk, Wand of the Phoenix

Chapter One

Jonas "John" Carver looked in the mirror at his black hair that ran untidily down his face and to his shoulders. He winced at the sight of his unkempt face and thought: I definately need to-

There was a noise behind him. He swirled, brought his wand up, faced the hallway but nothing. His eyes tried to look everywhere at once. Sunlight glinted off the glass topped coffee table, and dancing reflections of light streamed down the glass paned windows. His heart thudded in his chest - "Is it you, Voldemort?" He asked aloud, thinking of the twenty five year old he had met two weeks ago who styled himself as Lord Voldemort.

John Carver ran a business selling wands, but not the junk you buy in Ollivanders. He sold rare wands, exotic shit you have to pay heavily to get done... He remembered his best deal, finding a Purple Iron dragon in the rainforests of Brazil and getting a few scales. His employer paid him fifty thousand galleons, and later at night when he was sleeping in his tent, tried to rob him of it. John remembered his first kill well.

It was risky business, making wands the way he made them but there was a huge demand. He always told potential customers at cocktail parties he made powerful men powerful, and weak men stayed weak. It's not the wand, its the wizard behind it. But sometimes, the right wand can help too, can help a lot in duels, everyday life.

He was nearing the age of fifty, when his prostate felt like it was the size of a golf ball. He was at that point in life where wizarding magic could do so little to help his ailments. He lived a dangerous life, did dangerous work. And his broken battered body told him he had one last chance out of the game. Make a large fortune somehow. So he did a scam, and the hunters who were after him wanted his hide nailed to a wall.

Calloused hands held the wand Tom Riddle wanted in his palms. He felt the rythym of its energy - basilisk eyes were powerful magic - run throug his finger tips and thought he could very well kill the boy if it came down to it. The wand was just that good.

Sure it wasn't fair, he had gotten paid after all and Tom had supplied the basilisk eyes but the wand needed a strong owner, someone like John Carver.

(not just that, there's more to it too, and don't you dare lie to yourself, John. Honesty is the best policy, tell yourself the truth)

"Alright," he sighed, unlocking his elbows and resting the wand against his thigh. "Nobody's here."

He changed quickly into black wizarding robes, and went out the door of his two bedroom muggle apartment he had gotten for four hundred pounds a month after he applied a very subtle confusement charm on the landlord, a very old and frail looking lady named Bertha.

He had told Bertha he couldn't afford the apartment. "I can't pay you a thousand pounds a month, no way, ma'aam," he had said.

"You're an American," she replied, "You don't know good British value. Trust me, young man, the property here is worth its weight in gold..."

She wouldn't budge. John needed the property because it was quiet, nobody would disturb him here or find him. London was a dangerous place, especially for American wizards selling powerful magical objects. Also, he was running away from a group of werewolves he had stiffed back in America. Promised them wands. They paid him. He left the States to try his newly made fortune in the UK.

Why had he done it? Why did he cheat people?

That was just who he was, and now, he had cheated Tom Riddle, a man who called himself a dark lord.

When John first heard about him in the Leaky Cauldron he had laughed right in front of his friend, his gal pal's face. Lesli Walesa was a big boned German woman, approximately thirty five years of age who had worked a job with John's cousin in Mexico. They were importing flying carpets into the UK, and Lesli had offered John a piece of the pie. John turned Lesli and his cousin down, because he was already lining up several good deals. Then, ten months later he wrote them a letter. He needed a place to stay.

A week after their heartfelt reply, he stiffed the wolves and ran with his tail behind his legs and three hundred thousand galleons in cold hard cash, shrunk in a black leather briefcase.

John stopped at a coffee house, walked in, felt loose change in his pocket. He knew it was bad fashion to walk in wizard robes in muggle territory, but he had no choice. He had been awake for the last thirty six hours, awaiting a portkey from Lesli. She was getting it from a friend of a friend, who was getting it from god knows where.

He had to get out of here.

He remembered the conversation he had with Leslie, when he first arrived in the UK. He had gotten off the plane, a novel experience for him (damn muggles are crazy with their metals, marvelled the Uncle who raised him) and went straight to the Leaky Cauldron with a hastily scribbled address on a scrap of parchment in his hand to guide him.

"So here's the scoop in this town. Tom's the new king around these here parts, if you want anything done. Calls himself Lord Voldemort, makes his followers do the same. They have their hands in every piece of the pie," Lesli said, then politely sipped her butter beer. She looked out the window, her face a mess of wrinkles and bruises. John had wanted to ask what happened to her, what kind of scrap had she escaped from, but he restrained himself. He knew it was not appropriate. Lesli wanted to chat about the kingpin around here, fine. "I know you, John, you've got a bright mind, Tom can make use of you. There's a fat paycheck too."

"You know so much about him," John said, "Are you fucking him?"

Lesli's face reddened.

"I'm sorry," John said hastily, "It just slipped out, sorry, Jesus."

Lesli leaned close to John, her eyes peering brightly and angrily at him. She hissed in a low, bitter voice, "It was just the one night, John. I told you to forget about it." Then she got up, scooping her purse, threw a galleon on the table for their butter beer and stormed off.

John had admired her derriere, feeling the stirring in his loins. He was a sexual man, no denying it. Despite his prostate troubles he could still go on like a jackrabbit once he got the old engine running.

Inside he was worried about the wolves, the pack leader's name was Robert Banksy and he was by no means a pansy. At least six feet high and perhaps just as wide, his muscled body could squeeze John's neck into a pulp in less then ten seconds. John had been scared when he had done the deal, cheated the wolf man but he knew he just had to do it. That was how people got ahead in the world, by crawling over other people.

He couldn't get distracted. Too much was at play. Maybe that's why he told Lesli off or maybe he was just plain horny and wanted to bang her and didn't like hearing about some younger man. Damn testosterone, he thought, not even wizards can dodge that bullet.

He walked on the snowy streets sipping his coffee, lost in his thoughts. He came to a mound of snow pushed against the boarded Church of the Holy Light and, fliking his wand, he melted the snow that blocked the door. He fished in his pockets for the key and unlatched the door to his safe house. There were muggle repelling charms, and best of all, Tom Riddle didn't know about this place. Nobody did.

He had made it a secret all to himself, spent days preparing it. A rented house, a few memory charms, furniture and food, a pistol armed with rubber pellets. He wanted muggle weapons, he got some... Hunting rifles and shot guns. He didn't really know how to use it but he told himself he had time to figure it out.

He warded the place strongly as well. That was the most time consuming part of making a safe house safe from wizards. The wards were basic, he had read them and done them quick and easy but he was a smart cookie so he thought the house was safe. He entered the dark building. It had a scent making his nose curl at the sour flavour that seemed to invade his mind... the scent of dead bodies littered the room. A ghostly white light came out of a wand, held by a young man, tall, dark hair, and impecable unforgettable eyes.

"Tom," John said putting on a strong, fake impression. He tightened his grip on his wand. "How interesting to see you here. Is there anything I can get you, a glass of wine?"

"We've had enough foolishness," Tom said, each word powerfully cutting the bullshit - everything was clear now. Tom would kill John tonight, if John gave him the chance.

"Avada Kedavra!" John said, acting first, swishing his wand at Tom like he was attacking with a sword. A jet of green light pulsated out of his wand, reaching out to touch Tom with its tendrils of death. Tom evaded gracefully, his motion supremely economical. He moved his neck two inches to the left. The green light passed him by harmlessly.

John took a step back, shut the door with a flick of his wand as Tom acted, bringing his wand up and sending forth a multitude of fireworks - spells that would obliterate John if he let them. He conjured, "Sistanis," the most powerful shield he knew. A prism of white light rose around him. The spells Tom sent flickered and died away.

"You've been a thorn in my side, Carter," Tom said, his voice rising as he circled John, who kept his eyes weary of Tom's slightest movements.

John raised his wand as several spells came to him. He had to act fast, but carefully. He wanted to survive. Could he apparate out? If he tried he would be caught in a jinx that stopped apparration - a ward he himself implanted. Yet if he continued this duel he might die.

There was no other option. He had to kill Tom Riddle, the self styled Lord Voldemort, right here and right now.

As if Tom could sense his intentions, he started to laugh. "Kill me? You? A pathetic half blood like yourself would not even draw blood-"

John lunged to the floor, his wand flickering with power as he focused all his mind on a single spell, "Explusivo!" A jet of red light hit the ceiling. Chunks of rubble descended on them. John covered his face with his hands, conjured a flickeringly weak shield - "Protego!" He hoped it would defend him, halt the crumbling bricks falling on them.

The rubble of the safe house exploded, caved in. John was crushed, but his mind worked frantically. He checked the wards - the apparration ward was broken. He could escape. He tried. He did but not before hearing a howl of rage as cold as arctic winds and deadly.

Like the venom of a snake. John tried to stiffle that thought but felt in his heart, the part of him he tried to surpress, the voice that spoke the darkest truth: Tom Riddle's not going to stop looking for you.

Lord Voldemort isn't going to stop until I'm dead, John realized.

It sent blood pumping hard through his body, and filled him with exhileration. Fifty years old, declining in health, yet he felt more alive than ever.

Chapter TWo

He apparrated out with a pop, thinking of the Leaky Cauldron where he had had dinner with Lesli.

With a pop he appeared in the crowded muggle-magical restaurant. He met the gazes of the patrons stoically as he brushed dirt off his filthy black robes, conscious of the fact that he looked like a bum. He went to the teller, ordered a cup of whiskey, knowing he would be followed if Tom survived. He needed a damn drink, sobriety be damned, if he were to survive this mess. Tom would need at least ten to fifteen minutes to trace the apparration, faster if he had friends in the ministry, but it was doable.

John gulped down the whiskey, paid, and started to leave. He paused, asked the teller, "Hey, do you know when the Knightbus arrives to Knockturne Alley?"

The teller glanced at a grandfather pendolum clock sitting in the corner. "About half hour, sir," he said in a gruff voice.

John hurried. The shot of whiskey warmed him. He felt better, stronger.

He didn't have his wand with him. He had lost it in the rubble, in the explosion. Now he was defenseless, amongst dangerous foes he didn't know much about.

With no friends, he was all alone and had to rely on his wits and skills to get him out of this mess.

A strong arm gripped his shoulder as he went out the back entrance of the Leakly Cauldron, to the entrance of Diagon Alley. "Where do you think you're going?" said a familiar growl. John turned slowly, heart hammering in his chest. He was scared. He knew the owner of the voice only too well. It was Robert Bansky, the werewolf from America. John stole a shit load of money from Robert, pretended to be an honest man who really cared about the werewolf cause and then when they least expected it, John broke years of trust and hauled money out of the States. Stole money. Blood money.

"Hello Robert," he said in his calmest, most professional tone. "I can guess the reason why you are here and I assure you, you will get a fair deal. In fact, I have your merchandise ready." This was a lie. John hoped Robert couldn't see through it.

Robert narrowed his grey eyes, turning an icy look into something more, an examination that tested his mental shields. John tried to raise his occlumency shields, felt his mind descend into a twilight zone facilated by a few weeks of intensive mind training in a zen monastary where a zen monk - also with magical talent - had taught him the fine art of occlumency. That was in his early twenties when he had travelled the world, hunting rare potions ingredients.

"You must always retain awareness in your navel, the source of your magical power," the Zen monk had said over a cup of green tea as they talked on a patio that overlooked gigantic himalayan mountains. Fog swirled around them, chilling and moist.

"What if I lose this awareness-?"

"Then your shield cracks and breaks, but you can regain it instantly... if you can train yourself to. Most wizards lack not the ability but the dedication," the Zen monk sipped his tea, and shivered in his orange robes, "But you can work. I see that in you, your hard working nature."

He tried to remember his lessons, and he thought he succeeded. Robert shoved John into the wall. "Open the entrance," he barked out, "Lets see the merchandise you promised me. I have a hundred werewolves who donated their life savings for the Liberation Cause and they are very angry with me... Your fate depends on my fate. I will rip you apart piece by piece, bone by bone, if you try to screw with me."

John nodded, "I was caught in unfortunate unexpected trouble, had to run. Never intended to cheat you." He tapped the bricks. The entrane opened.

They entered Diagon Alley's busiest hours.

John walked briskly, "We need to go to Knockturne Alley," he said, thinking of a safe house he had set up there as well as the Knightbus schedule. He had a silver knife stockd in a kitchen drawer. If he could get that he could kill Robert, and hopefully the werewolves would leave him alone. Then he could deal with the boy who called himself the Dark Lord. Or, he could hike it out of the UK with his new wand, his powerful wand... which he had lost... perhaps Tom would cease hunting him now that he had what he wanted.

But Tom wasn't the sort of person who forgot or forgave wrongs. No, Tom would hunt him down like a dog and dispose of it.

John hardened his will - He would not let that happen. He could not! He thought of his daughter Julie, whom he had left in the states, her pretty blond hair and her seven year old eyes as round as a pie, always amazed and curious about the world. No, he needed this money - his daughter had a fatal disease. The cure - two hundred thousand galleons. He needed a hundred thou for expenses, and future business plans. His daughter... was dying, unless John could get the money to her as quickly as possible.

Robert grabbed John suddenly as they neared an abandoned lot; a boundary seperating Diagon Alley from Knockturne Alley, where construction being done on various buildings littlered the border line. The lack of people around here was not lost on John.

Robert raised a fist. John saw it coming, but willed his body to stay absolutely still. This is necessary, he thought, it must be done. I need to get this werewolf's trust or else I'm a dead man. And if I have to appear weak to do so, then fine.

The fist hit his nose. Blood spurted out. He fell to the ground, hands to his nose, "Aaah!" He groaned, his nose was broken. Tears ran down his face.

He washed them away with a mud streaked hand as he got to his feet, stumbled, but kept pressure on his broken nose. "Fuck," he said, and then looked Ralph straight in the eye, man to man.

They held eye contact for almost a minute, a pulsating form of magic tainted with the corruption of Robert's inner wolf passed through them. This magic transcended the basic occlumency he had learnt.

Memories were nonexistent in the black sphere that contained the two strong willed individuals. John felt his being go soft with pleasure and relaxation... he reclined in the darkness of his mind. Robert gripped his conscoiusness tightly, awakening John from his stupor. "Honesty is the best policy," said the voice of a seven year old girl, said the voice of his daughter Julie.

It was a sing song voice. John couldn't bear it-"Alright! Alright!" He garbled through blood pouring down his chin. "Fuck, stop this," he said. The mental connection, strange as it was, faded to nothingness.

John lay on the snowy ground, his back getting wet and cold in the snow packed underneath him. "P-please-"

"Honesty is the best policy," Robert said with an amused grin. But there was no mercy or compassion. Those grey eyes would rip John to pieces in an instant, perhaps even eat him. John had heard of werewolves doing that sometimes, eating their victims while they were alive.

He hated werewolves now. Wished he had never dealt with them but they offered good money.

"I paid three hundred thousand galleons for six hundred high quality wands," Robert growled out. "Do you or do you not have those wands?"

John coughed sick yellow plegm. "No, not yet, I gave the money to a man named Tom Riddle. He has he best connections here. He cheated me, swindled me out of your money. I ran, because I didn't know what else to do."

Robert looked at JOhn consideringly, and JOhn could see a rational mind directed the monster of the wolf. A rational, cold, and merciless mind. Robert lifted his leg. John saw it before he felt it. Robert kicked John in the stomach, hard.

John tried to raise his hands to stop the blow but his clumsiness seemed foolish. Pain, hot and unhealthy, spread across his chest, down his belly and legs. He saw his pants - they were damp. He had pissed himself in terror.

Breathe, John, breathe, get a hold of yourself. The memories of his training with the zen monks were so far away. There was nothing he could do now but pray, hope to survive. He had never prayed to God in his life.

'Please, oh please, I'll do anything if you help me,' he said in his mind, 'please god, save me.'

Robert dragged John up to his feet, "Come on, lets see the stash in Knockturne Alley. You said earlier you had the wands. I want to see what you really have."

"Tom Riddle stole those wands," John lied, "Stole the money, said he would get the wands. He has it!"

If he could pit his two enemies agaisnt each other the problem was solved. BUt it could backfire spectacularly.

They walked briskly down the snowy streets. The rain started to pour harder, and like crystals of ice they pelted the two. Robert kept a steady hand on John's shoulder with a crushingly powerful grip that made John's shoulder ache with tension. He felt the injuries from the fall that hopefull killed Riddle-

(But you know it didn't kill that son of a bitch, Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, whatever his name is. You know the man you were facing in that Church was a monster, an evil... perhaps even a true Dark Lord if ever there was such a thing.)

His body was badly bruised. He walked with a limp. Robert urged him to go faster.

"What's the hurry?" John asked breathleslly, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Shut the fuck up," Robert said, and then did something wierd. He sniffed the air, like a wolf finding the scent of prey. "SOmeone's following us."

"It's the man I told you about, Tom Riddle," John said. "He cheated me-"

"Shut up!" Robert hissed, his werewolf eyes slanted with rage. "You'll get us found. This man, this Lord Voldemort, is no ordinary wizard. He's dwelved into dark magic, deep stuff. I can smell the taint even from here."

John shuddered, knowing the feeling all too well. He hadn't paid attention to it before when he first met charming Mr. Riddle.

Chapter Three

They met at a cocktail party the Minister's wife had thrown. John, needing new clients now that he was settling in the UK, had snagged an invite from a friend who wasn't going-he had plans involving a brunette half the age of his wife-so John went in his stead. He dressed nicely for the event, using seven hundred galleons to buy the best dressing robes money could buy. It was acrumentala silk, a fine robe with intricate markings of dragons on its hems that moved and roared miniscule amounts of fire. The robes fit well, better than any robes he had ever worn in his life. His uncle, a pureblood with a big curiosity of all things muggle, had made John try both muggle wear and wizard wear.

He had never liked robes, felt they were too girly... and preferred jeans to anything else. But these robes, he could get used to. These robes were the finest, most comfortable robes he had ever worn.

He felt good about himself, dressed, showered in a one hour hot water bath with salts of various kinds - one for clear skin, another for virility and sexual prowesse (if nothing else, he at least hoped to share a bed with a pretty girl tonight after the party), and a third for a mental boost. The third was special, because he had gotten it from his Uncle who owled him the potion to pour in his bath tub. It was made with cardamom, corriander, basil and rosemary, infused with a diluted drop of Felix Felicis.

He knew he would be lucky tonight.

His uncle was a mediocre potions master, sure, but his creations worked, and that was all that really mattered to John Carver.

He dressed and hailed the Knightbus from the apartment he had rented, the one he got for four hundred pounds a month. A steal, his muggle friend from the gym told him, a real steal for that kind of place.

But he was a thief. It was his day job.

And here he was, ready to milk Britain for all it was worth.

The rising star in the ministry was a pureblood man named Abraxus Malfoy, who although very rich was known to be extremely generous with his wealth as well. That brought Abraxus a lot of friends. People said he would be Minister of Magic in the next decade for sure. John enver put much stock in rumours. He had an invite to the party however, and he wanted to attend. His fine robes glistened in the evening light as he got off the Knightbus to an elaborately decorated road. The road led upward a circular route, lined with hedges and flowers (were those poppy seeds? John asked himself). John walked swiftly to the lights blinking in the distance. Merry voices of laughter and conversation washed over him.

He grinned a wolfish grin, which reminded him of the man he had cheated, Robert Bensky.

But that was the game of life, winners made money on the backs of the losers.

Now he was here in Britain to start a new life, and he had three hundred thousand galleons in bright yellow goblin approved gold, ready to invest.

He was rich and he was going to enjoy every moment of it... but his daughter Julie and her sickness plagued his mind as he walked up the cobbled steps to the front door of the mansion where the party went on in full blast, as baroque music filtered through the hedges, light, soft, and twinkly like the stars overhead in the deep black night. Magic, plain and simple, rose inside him, an exhilerating rush of meditation, spontaneously occuring to him. The experience with the monks had changed him in some fundamental way.

As he entered, a house elf greeted him and politely asked to take off the heavy cloak over his robes. He agreed, handed the elf the cloak and sauntered to the hall where white sofas circled a hearth blazing blue red fire. The people chit chattered, old friends all of them. John knew nobody there, but he felt good, ready to make friends. He put a hand in his pocket, and came out with two pills of valium, 5 mg each. He hastily stuffed it in his mouth and took an offered drink on a platter served by a buxome red head maid. "Thanks," he said, taking a sip of the wine. It was delicious, old, aromatic, orgasm in a sip.

Valium was a muggle medication used to relax anxious people.

John Carver's uncle had sent him a packet of them to be used, in his own words, 'Whenever you need to have a bit of fun, and can't forget your daily troubles.'

It was at that party where he saw Tom Riddle, sitting in the center of the circle of white couches. There were enough seats available for him to snag one, perhaps close to Tom, but it seemed an impossibility.

The man was surrounded, flocked by admirerers.

John's first impression was of a peculiar, skinny vampire, which faded drastically as he approached.

The man sreamed: wizard, I am a wizard. From the way he spoke, to his fans, to the robes he wore, to the way he curled the yew wand - Jesus it looks like a piece of bone, thought John. It was unmistakable. John had found the mob boss, and now he didn't want to get closer. He intuitingly sensed a danger about the man who had no name as of yet. He sipped his glass of wine he picked up and tried to relax even further.

The valium was kicking in strong. It felt like a cool breeze descending heavily on his forehead, felt like relaxing boat rides and sunbathes on beaches. Heaven in a bottle, call it valium, call it whatever the fuck you want but goddamn, I'm so fucking intoxicated I'd hit on all the pretty women here.

Indeed he used to be (maybe I still am, hombre) a party man, and at the age of fifty his urges hadn't been curbed by plentiful experiences of being surrounded by beautiful women.

He walked toward the man with the red eyes because he could. That was fucking strange, red eyes! Like the devil, the diablo coming to get you. John shivered at the memories of his mother's nightmare stories.

The valium gave him a huge confidence boost. It was unnatural. He had taken too much. His limbs felt really heavy, his eyes glazed and high, and he had the look of a man drunk, yet coherent, no, not plain coherent because he had passed that boundry into a new space.

He was coherent to perfection, and drunk off valium. This was a bad combination. No, hombre, its a perfect combo, John said in his mind, this way I can have fun without thinking of werewolves hunting me down and chaining me to themselves on a full moon's night. This way, I can relax and have a good night's out.

He walked into the middle of the circle before he knew it. The conversation faded as he approached the red eyed man with the charisma, the half smile, the confident gaze that said, 'Come to me, I'm your man.'

"Hello sir," he said politely, almost a murmur. Then, taking out his hand he held it to the man, "John Carver, pleased to make your aquiantance."

Tom looked at him for a cold hard second. John felt his insides freeze up and despite the valium he wanted to run out of here, run as fast as possible. His heart hammered in his chest, palms became sweaty and it got tough to breathe. This is trouble, he thought warily, this guy will kill me if he thinks it will amuse him. No wonder the purebred psychos like this guy, he's the king of psychosis.

Tom Riddle extended his own hand, cold, white and pale. He had unnaturally long fingers. The red eyes gleamed, along with shades of brown, black and grey. It was mezmerizing. John found himself lost in that gaze... "I'm a business man," John said, and sat down, surprised to find a seat available very close to Tom Riddle.

"My friends call me Lord Voldemort," Tom said, not breaking eye contact. "So do my enemies."

"Then, since I am neither your friend nor your enemy, I shall call you Tom," John said, laughing. The valium was kicking in so goddamn strong he felt like a big fat clown running around about to be killed like those chickens he had seen when he was a little boy who held hands while his mama walked him to the butcher shop.

There was a tiny gasp of surprise beside Tom. A young blonde lady, about twenty years, very attractive with her pretty red lips (that would look good sucking my dick, John thought) and the swell of her breasts, said, "John what business do you do exactly?" Her eyes were narrowed. She didn't like some stranger invading her social party.

Tom didn't seem to mind, but carried on with half closed eyes, listening peacefully to the chatter of the room. Yet something about that eyes-

They don't blink.

John startled, he had never seen Tom blink yet and he had been looking into those eyes for a long ass time. What the fuck was wrong with this dude?

"I'm a wand maker," he answered, and the valium made him boast, "Not the shit you get at Ollivanders. That's good for schoolchildren if they want to practice a few household charms, but for powerful magic, you need stronger wands that can withstand the pressures and rigours of a firm, mighty wizard."

Tom looked interested, "So you build wands that are different somehow, in what way?" His voice drowned everything else, a soft low hum that made him very sleepy. He was getting hypnotised he realized, just like the way his mama sung lullaby songs to get him to sleep. That was a sort of hypnosis. Tom used a similar kind, except John detected there was a bit of magic involved - serious, advanced magic. He was dealing with a real wizard here, a powerful one, he had to be careful.

The thing about valium was, there was no such thing as careful. All boundries dissapeared. "Essentially, I look for the most exotic and powerful ingredients the world has ever seen, basilisk scales and the hairs of white monkeys and the tails of yellow parakeet birds, which are rare as hell. These ingredients each cast a different shade, a different magical property is expressed, and I can match a suitable wand for a wizard depending on what he wants to do..." John chuckled, "Its a lenghty topic of discussion and I don't wish to waste time with details. A lovely party," he said, and held a hand to the hostess who had given him the evil glare, who sat right beside Tom on his left.

She regally shook John's hand, and John leaned over, his shoulder briefly touching Tom's chest, kissed her hand and winked at her.

Tom of course pretended not to take notice of this action but John could tell with a hint of a smirk that he had aggravated the presumably "cool" as ice man.

"So what do you do Tom?" John asked, but he had an inkling of an idea. This guy was a dark wizard, killed people blah blah. He knew the story. His uncle had taken him from his father, who dwelved in dark magic. His father hadn't even batted an eye, just gruffed at him, "Don't cause trouble, boy," and then punched 15 year old John in the ear and that was the only goodbye he ever got. He never knew what became of his father, but he thought that if his father ever met Tom Riddle, he would be impressed.

No, more than impressed, he thought as he swept his eyes over the other guests, rich purebloods the lot of them. Devoted.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," said the hostess who clearly had no idea who John was but looked slightly more interested in him than before, "My name's Alexandra Malfoy, and my husband, Abraxus is away at the Ministry tonight."

"Ah, so we're all alone," John said, blazenly flirting with her. The valium filled him with euphoria. "That's good, I like that."

Tom cleared his throat, "The wand making you do, where do you synthesize the materials you gather?"

"My uncle does it," John said, "He's the one who glues the things I bring to him. I can do it in a jiffy but my uncle's better at it. Of course, you don't have to take my word for it, you can take his-" He got some polite chuckles, "He lives in the states."

"I've heard of wizards becoming multiple times stronger by using a wand more keyed in to their being," Tom said, "The legends show it often, like the nursery rhyme of the Elder wand. I would like to comission a wand-"

John raised his hand. The valium hit its peak. He felt so relaxed and confident. "Twenty thousand galleons, initial rate. Sorry, but that's-"

"No problem whatsoever," Alexandra Malfoy said, "Lord Voldemort deserves the very best."

"Why do they call you a Lord, Tom?" John asked, facing the self styled Lord.

Tom looked at him, and this was a look that could boil iron. "Because I am." He said.

The look burned through his soul. He saw memories flash by. His occlumency shields, so painfully built up broke into splinters as if a giant ran his hand through a castle made of sand. His mind muddled, memories rearranged, his head felt like it was going to explode as he saw Tom peaking into his mind from a vast distance. He tried to scream; he was helpless, couldn't move or say or do anything.

He thought back to his monk training, breathe, breathe. As he observed his breathing from a passive, detached gaze, he could feel his mind sedatively falling asleep and Tom retreated before sleep could consume him as well. The valium made sleep come easier, it was the only way to stop Tom-No, not Tom, but Lord Voldemort's legilimency attack.

John Carver was put in a bed in the Malfoy home, and although he felt someone take his robes off so he was completely naked underneath silk sheets he wasn't prepared for the sight of waking up in the middle of the night with a warm naked body pressed against his own.

It appeared Alexandra Malfoy wanted some company that night. She murmurred, in a half sleep half awake state, "You've been out for three hours, party's over," she said. John leaned down, his fifty year old body doing inner jumping jacks at the thought of getting laid.

"Wanna have some fun?" He whispered in her ear as his hands found her chest.

Chapter Four

In the snowy light that pilfered the constructed canopy of Knockturne Alley, Robert pressed John's shoulder with crushing, bruising strength as he hurried the two along. Robert had known a day would come when he would have to kill to make his mark on the world, but so far he had restrained that urge with tremendous self discipline. He feared to let the wolf out, take control. Endless bloodlust cooked behind the emotionless mask he wore.

They moved quickly through the streets, pushing past a hag carrying a basket of oranges and a fat ogre of a man who haggled with a very skinny looking wizard dressed in a purple turban.

The shops were bustling, busy and prosperous here in the border where dark and light blended into grey - objects of magic too powerful, too wanted to be controlled by the Ministry.

"Is it Tom?" John asked Robert. "The guy's shit fuck insane, he'll try to kill both of us."

"Who's Tom?" Robert asked, "Some other customer you tried to cheat?"

John knew honesty was the best policy as his mother had informed him ever so long ago. "That's right, Tom wants me dead. I escaped his attack just five minutes ago."

"At the church of the holy light, right? Your little safe house?"

John startled back in surprise, "How'd you know about-"

"Do you really think you can just cheat the most powerful beings in the world and get away with it?" Robert spat pure anger and contempt at him. "My brethren want to rip you to shreds, and will, unless we get our wands."

"I didn't rat you out to the Ministry," John said, "I could have, and they would have jailed your wolves, but I didn't."

"Which is why you're alive right now," Robert said, "I'm a fair man."

"My daughter Julie, she's dying. I sent most of the money to the hospital at St. Mungoes to cover the expenses."

Robert stopped his stride. He swivelled to face John eye to eye. "You spent our money? Where are the fucking wands?" Robert asked, shaking John's arm like a rag down. He punched John in the gut, hard. "Where's the fuckin' wands!"

It wasn't a question, but a bellow of anger. Robert went into a crazed fit, started to hit and kick John, dragged him down to the floor, and fell on the wizard, bit his ear off, got up and kicked his upper thigh. Aided with the madness of werewolf strength, John screamed a scream of pure agony at the blows inflicted on him and lying there, battered and broken, he thought about his little girl, seven years old, with her favorite doll named Melissa whom she cared about more than anything in the world, even more than the father she had never seen or known.

He was in a cloud of pain, and he couldn't move-

"Get up," Robert ordered, "Get up goddamn you or I'll leave you to Voldemort to take care of."

John groaned up at Robert, blood running down his nose, his chin. His head felt warm and wet and stank like blood, that metallic scent was all he knew in that moment. Pain assaulted him at all angles. "Do it then, kill me. I already paid the fees at St. Mungoes. You won't get your money. Do it then. Let it be over," he spat blood and a tooth on the snow.

Robert spat a goblet of saliva and something else at John's face and said, "Wish I were in my wolf form right now. Then I could inflict something that would really hurt." Robert shook his head, turned, apparrated away with a pop.

As John lay there, bruised, broken, bleeding, Tom approached from the distance.

His footsteps crunched against the snow on the ground. John looked up to see Lord Voldemort (or Tom the little boy who has delusions of grandeur) survey him with a critical eye. He twirled a very familiar wand. Yew, with phoenix feather, and a single addition: the eye of a basilisk. John had given him that.

"You've changed things for me, you know," Tom said casually, "I used to be good with my wand, but the connection I feel to it has deepened. I thank you for that."

"Then spare my life," John said between gulpfuls of air.

Tom laughed, a roaring barbaric laughter that turned all the hairs on John's body - beard stubble, hair on legs and arms and neck and back - stood erect like a hardon.

Then:

"Avada Kedavra!"

John knew nothing more.

-

PART II

-

Cacophony

Part II: The Rise of Lord Voldemort

"I live to serve all believers," Paladin in Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos

Chapter I

When Tom first opened his eyes, he had no thought inside him. But there was a glimmer of self awareness as he painfully exited the womb of his mother, whose blood was as pure as could be, being the direct descendent of the great snake charmer Salazar Slytherin, who dorm boy rumor had it could charm the pants off Rowena's three sisters in less than a minute.

He smelt the nausious scent of septic ointment sprayed across the polished wood of the bedside table. It was hospital smell, a scent he would later come to recognize, and fear.

He had been brought up in an orphanage called St. Mary's, and the orphanage was located on 112 Burkview Drive, East London, Britain.

It was an out of the way place. Farmer Bob, as the locals called the despot who owned most of the agriculture near the orphanage, would not lease any land to the homeless, the needy, the orphans, and none whatsoever to those racially different from his "holy white skin."

There were two sets of swings near the orphanage. One of them had a faulty screw. The kids, Mariah had observed once, loved to prank each other by tricking them to ride the faulty swing. She never got it fixed because she liked that memory; it warmed her on a cold, rainy night when she was lonely, with only herself and the bottle of vodka. She listened to the wails of the newest born child, from that lady Riddle, and sighed inside. Poor child, she thought, no parents. An orphan just like the rest of them. She resolved to go right by Tom, treat him good, raise him up well.

Mariah ran the place. She was the boss, and it didn't matter what the sponsor, gentleman doctor, Edward K Howle, M.D, thought about it. This was her place, she raised the kids, and she would be damned if it went out of budjet. So she had agreed to meet Farmer Bob, real name Thomas Arckane to settle a loan, with ten percent interest signed onto her name.

She just cared about those damn kids so much, being an orphan herself. And now she was into some money, she could do something-

Her great aunt Matilda had died and had left almost a thousand pounds for her. Almost. It would help pay for her house and food for three months. Life was tough-people were scroungy when the war hit with the Germans and the Russians and Japs, whoever.

She stood up, and walked into the hospital wing of the orphanage. The beds were full with sick kids, one - Mat Thoman, had the flu and another, Lisa Gurdle had pneumonia and would die in the next two weeks.

Then there was the Riddle girl. She was dead, her body a cold carcass that had been lying there for almost two hours. Within her arms, Tom Riddle, a baby boy named by her mother in her last dying moments, cried, but there was no tears. Mariah chilled - It was a silent cry. The instant was enlightening: she changed her view about Tom in that single moment, when she saw the silent cry. Her good will vanished as something in her (Ma always said I was pyschic, hurr hurr) became suspicious of the baby.

The baby looked healthy, rosey read cheeks and bright eyes gazing everywhere at once, absorbing - no, drinking in everything around him.

Mariah's gold necklace, the one her husband had given to her before he went off to serve in the army, started to rattle and turn hot. She didn't even notice it for many minutes as she shuffled through the cupboard, looking for the safety bottle of wine she always kept for emergencies.

She felt shitty so fuck the emergency. A bit of guilt ran up her stomach but she ignored it and ignored the baby as she continued to rummage through the cupboard, woefully dry of real allopathic medicine, but plentiful of cheap fresh herbs like valerian, chamomille, ginkgo biloba, ginseng.

The rattling became so noticable she stopped, froze suddenly midway in a grab and looked down. Then she screamed as searing hot pain, as demon hot as could be ran down her chest-

The smell, oh the smell, burning flesh simmered and broiled with the heat of the rattling necklace, turning red hot and then white hot with supernatural heat. She lifted her hands as she felt the necklace bore through her chest and touch bone-

"AAAAH!" Her scream rang out louder than she would have thought possible, pain assualted her vision black spots blinded her. She touched the necklace, and with force of immense will she picked it up, letting the hot metal burn through her fingers, the flesh turn to black rot and smoke, and dig into the whites of her bones. She thrust the necklace into the cupboard and fell back, shivering, crying, screaming inside. The pain was real, oh god so real, it couldn't be a dream or a nightmare, not a trip on alcohol or nitrous. No, Mariah knew this was the...

The what?

The pain faded to a dull throb that lifted her off her feet, her face scrunched up in the very picture of agony. Baby Tom stared at her, eyes as wide as pies, and smooth round face glowing healthily.

Such a cute baby, Mariah unwillingly thought, and along with that came a bit of vomit gargled to her throat and into her mouth. She swallowed the bitter, sour fluid and ran, ran because she couldn't face Baby Riddle the Demon.

Baby Riddle, as Mariah would call him for the next three years, turned to look at his mother. He protected her, didn't allow anyone to come near them. He knew, with animal instinct, that she was dead, she smelled dead, she smelled like old fish and rotten meat. But the baby also loved the person who took care of him, the person who had given her body to him for nine months - and so Baby Tom had waited to come out into the world, waited to thank the Mama but alas-

Death takes us all... a whisper from the future.

The woman, the woman is coming! Baby Tom's instincts went to overdrive. The rage, anger instinctual and beast like cut through his awareness like a knife and he called up everything he had inside him, all his "being", body, mind, soul, as far as he could feel it in the circular expansion of his consciousness and he sent it forth, thrusting an attack on the gold chain the woman wore.

He sent thoughts of damage, hurt, pain, but there were no words in those thoughts. It was emotion, pure emotion, not built up like clay pots to be broken down in time, but an essential emotion, coming directly from TOm's soul... a soul marred with unspeakable evil, reincarnated after centuries.

The soul knew his ancient self as Gok, and was older than the Earth, as old as the universe, when it had first began. It came to life the way the sun shined or the floor bloomed. All was mystery, all was accidental and though, in the course of his human explorations had heard of Lord GOd and Lord Satan, he had never met the two. He lived in aloneness, knowing only himself, the Gok.

The woman felt it then, the tinkering as Tom, baby innocence misleading the victim's initial interaction, made the woman Mariah suffer for trying to come close to them, to take his mother from him or worse, to touch him.

Tom, at that age of twenty or thirty minutes, already formed the beginnings of an antisocial mind.

Chapter TWo

Dumbledore walked quickly down the steps of the Hogwarts express sub way station and into the designated exit marked Muggle Land in archaic green lettering. He was dressed in bright orange black polka dot robes and he stuck out in the muggle world of business suits, notepads and pens, and briefcases.

He moved swiftly beause he hadn't a lot of time on his hands. With all the Grindelwauld things that kept propping up like sore thumbs he didn't know if he had time to brush his teeth anymore. The war was taking a heavy toll on his health. Just yesterday he woke up in the middle of the night coughing his lungs out because he had gotten hit (accidently, I assure you my dear) with a blistering charm on his chest, only the caster didn't know how to work the charm properly. He had been training his new recruits and they were not shaping up well, he had to say.

Today, travelling with a Hogwarts letter in one hand to deliver to a boy named Tom Marvelo Riddle, he thought it would be nice to refill his sack of favorite candy, lemon drops. He also thought it would be nice to get the newly created order of the phoenix together for a brain storming session about what to do with the Dark Lord Grindelwauld, who had taken over Germany and was threatening France, and by proxy, England.

Conserving his energy, he decided to hike it to St. Mary's orphanage, only a three mile walk and although he was nearing his sixties he thought it fitting he should be in the best of shape. Show the younger ones that old age wasn't a bad thing at all.

With such optimistic thoughts looming in his mind, marred by streaks of Grindelwauld based doubts and fears, he didn't notice the snake that looked up and hissed softly under its breath when Dumbledore walked up the drive way of St. Mary's orphanage.

The garden snake swirled around in its coily form, moving swiftly through the knee high grass to another snake, this one half asleep, curled around a rock where the sun shined brightly.

'Hey, legos, the master's command, obey!' The snake cried to the dullwart snake. 'Strange man comessss here, we must warn the master, we must warn-"

"Do not waste his time," said the other snake. He was black and thick, a natural predator, very strong muscular type. "Warn him if you must, but face his wrath you will alone..."

The two snakes who lived near St. Mary's, and kept watch as well as did favours for Tom Riddle knew their master's wrath and anger, even at the boy's extremely young age.

If there was a word for 'brat' in the parseltongue language, the two snakes would have not dared to speak it out of fear.

As Dumbledore ascended the steps leading to the Orphanage, he met with Mariah, a thin, aging woman with a hideous white scar that ran around her neck, as if she had been strangled there by something-

(hot metal? Dumbledore wondered. An old injury no doubt, but the wrinkles around her eyes... She's tired. Perhaps a quick peek in her mind-No, that's a bad habbit... but one peek wouldn't hurt...)

Dumbledore lifted his blue eyes to meet Mariah's brown sparkly eyes and willed his magic forward into her brain and then searched for nothing and anything in particular.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, perhaps he hoped to strike an epiphany, and figure out a solution to the war by looking at some poor woman's memories about running an orphanage. But Dumbledore was at the end of his rope. He kept the attempt subtle and harmless. She would feel no lasting effects save for a headache, which would pass in due time.

He saw memories that sared him: A young man standing by the swings, being tricked into taking the faulty swing with a nail loose and then, splat, getting made fun of. That same boy with the black hair and the unnaturally long fingers got up from the sand, brushed off his knees and pointed his finger at Max, the bully of the orphanage. "Burn!" Little TOm Riddle said, and Max's clothes caught on fire, suddenly, on a perfectly fine almost cloudy day.

The fire spread rapidly. Max dropped and rolled to the ground as he had been taught not understanding what was happening to him. The pain spread agonizingly across his skin, he screamed, "Stop, god, stop! Stop it Tom, Riddle! I'm sorry-"

The fire suddenly vanished and Tom turned to look at Mariah, who was standing on the porch, eyes keenly watching the scene, and then scattered, ran away to the other side of the playground. Mariah hastened to Max, who suffered major burns but turned out okay in the end.

The scene vanished, and a few trivial ones showed up. Mariah washing dishes, drinking by herself in the office, looking at the invoices and receipts and knowing with certain knowledge the orphanage would close unless she could get a donation by Thomas Arkane. Dumbledore felt her repulsiveness at the man, and at the back that the consideration that yes, yes, Mariah would fuck Thomas Arkane and give him a blowjob or whatever the shit he wanted if it meant the Orphanage would remain open one more year.

Dumbledore retreated hastily at that. He hated invading the privacy of his victims, but gathering information had saved lifes in the past. His rationale didn't comfort him on those cold nights when he felt he was just as bad as his one time best friend, Grindelwauld.

The memory of Tom Riddle, using wandless magic at Max the bully intrigued Dumbledore. His quick mind already saw a vision of how their first meeting would go. No, I must change my role in this matter, Dumbledore thought to himself, and then smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs to Tom's room. Mariah stayed at the bottom of the stairs her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then she went into the kitchens, thankfully giving Dumbledore the privacy he needed. He knocked twice on the room, waited.

"What do you want?" a clear sharp sounding voice said from the bedroom. Dumbledore stepped back, cleared his throat and said: "I want to enter, if you will allow me to, Tom."

The door unlatched after three painfully silent seconds and the relentless gaze of Tom Riddle peered at Dumbledore, taking in the man's garb in an instant. "Are you a quack? Some sort of doctor sent to check me?"

Dumbledore shook his head. He ran a hand down his beard, something he only did when he was nervous. Tom opened the door to give entrance.

Dumbledore entered with trepidation.

Chapter Three

Max Hastings was a fat boy, right from the start. His alcoholic father was big boned, and his mother was on the heavy side though you wouldn't know with the horrendous purple dresses she wore. They split up in late 1944, when the war got to be too much and they had no money and no place to stay.

Lisa Hastings was pregnant at that time, she stayed in London, refused to move anywhere. She found the affections of a rich aristrocrat named Abraxus Malfoy. They had met at a bar in South London, where all the docks were. She was there because she held a job loading fish from the nets into the wooden boxes meant to be transported to the other coasts... France, portugal, who knows. Perhaps back to England.

She raised Max on her own when he was born. Abraxus helped, sent her money. Max wasn't the Malfoy's son, but Abraxus didn't seem to mind all that much. Max remembered (he was only seven or so) that mom's new boyfriend had stayed for dinner and there was a bit of a commotion down stairs, some yelling.

Max had woken up for a glass of milk. His throat was parched. He went out his bedroom, where he tripped on his G. doll. It made a thunk of a noise, thankfully or hopefully unheard. He went down the stairs straining his ears to listen carefully because he thought he heard a few snatchets of words -

"I am not going to do it, I just can't," Lisa said from the kitchen. Abraxus glared at her, Max imagined.

"You have to sacrifice your blood, it was the arrangement. If you back out-"

"Then what? What can you do, hurt me, kill me?" Lisa was a dominant woman, big and strong, and no man could intimidate her.

"Perhaps," Abraxus murmurred, "I made the wrong choice in selecting such a pathetic muggle for a sacrifice."

"Sacrifice," Lisa spat, "You want to do god knows what, and pay me a few thousand pounds for it just to see me cut my arm off or some shit?" Lisa was incredulous.

"Get the hell out of my house you bastard!" Lisa yelled.

Abraxus calmly said, "Alright madam as you wish. Just one more thing, Avada Kedavra."

Max would never forget those words in his life. Avada Kedavra. He had seen a flash of green light, though from the stairs he couldn't see the kitchen, he could see the reflection on the glass of the windows.

Max went back to his room, put his comforter over his head and pretended he didn't exist. He woke up the next morning and called 999.

Because without looking at the dead body lying on the porcelien tiled floor of the kitchen, Max knew somehting had happened, something... evil.

He could feel it in those two words... Avada Kedavra.

The police man had found him later that morning, a cup of coffee in his meaty hand that smelt roasted, black, and pungent. Max went to him from his hiding spot in the closet because his dad had told him you could always trust a policeman although Max wasn't sure how much he could trust his dad, he knew for the time being, he would be safe with-

A crash in the living room. The police man whirled on the balls of his feet, his left hand going for the butt of his gun and his right placing the coffee on the floor in a smooth, tiger like motion. Woah, Max thought. It was at that moment Max knew what he wanted to do with his life. Max wanted to become a police officer.

A dog had sprang into the house from a window, crashing into the room where the dead lady lay with her eyes open like saucers, a terrified expression frozen on her face, her once red lips now blue and gray and her puffy cheeks riddled and marred with wrinkles of dehydration.

It seemed a mystery. Max could feel, as a child feels, that the cop's instincts on this was working over time and they both stood closer to each other, creeping onto the dog and the dead lady, Max's mother. The dog, a thin black labrador who was scruffy from years of living on the streets started to sniff the dead lady. Max howled, "Get away from him! Get the hell away from my mother!" He ran to push the dog but the cop put a warning hand on his shoulder, and a glance at him silenced Max.

The cop looked tense, and worried... about a dog?

The cop slowly raised his revolver in the air, and cocked it, aiming at the dog's head. He pulled the safety off. All this Max watchd in apt awe as the cop found his angle of shooting and pulled the trigger. The gun exploded in a loud noise, and there was a bit of smoke trailing out of the barrel. Max saw the cop had a bead of sweat lining his brow. He looked at the dog and saw a mess of blood and gore, some of which had spilled onto his mother's body.

The cop buckled his revolver and said to Max, "You want some hot chocolate? I can get you coffee too, but it might not be so good for a kid your age." The cop shrugged, "Those neighborhood dogs just ain't regular kinds, he was going to eat your-"

"Well, never mind," the cop said, grabbing his coffee. "We'll investigate this later, but right now I really want to show you something cool. My police car is parked just around the corner. Have you ever driven in the front seat?"

Max shook his head.

The police man grinned, his cheshire grin showing the gums of his teeth, acres of pearly white, and something Max couldn't place, but didn't quite like.

"Have you ever had the siren on too?" The police officer continued, leading Max out of the house by his thick arm. "Come on, it will be fun."

The police man took him for a ride on the city, showing him the sights of the buildings and talking nonstop about his life and his work with the Church of the Holy Light.

"We're paladins, you know, we fight the darkness. Like the man who murdered your mother, he was dark, he used something we can't use and he tried to-"

"He tried to what?" Max asked sharply, whirling to look the cop in the eyes, his chin propped up by his arm at a right angle, hair flying out the window into the breeze as the siren wailed: wowah wowah wowah.

"The man who killed your mother," The police man said in a slow and careful tone, "Is a wizard. They're the most evil scum of the earth people you can find. I can't tell you a lot but what I found was from the paladins at that Church. They told me all about the magical world, there is one too you know. I saw it just now, evidence, direct proof." The cop slammed his fist against the dashboard. "They're everywhere, like cockroahes, and overrunning our world with their unnatural FREAKINESS!"

Spittle flew at Max's face. Max was numb to the cop's rage, in truth his own anger bottled deep inside was far more potent. "Are you going to be able to find the man who did it?"

The cop nodded, "That's exactly what I'll do. Tell me everything-"

"I didn't see much, just a man my mother was talking to, someone I didn't know and I heard the words Avada Kedavra."

The cop nodded, "That's the killing curse," he said, and stroked the stubble on his chin. He parked the car in a lot between two buildings, one orange painted spotted with grafity and the other a rising skyscraper in construction. The workers toiled. The cop got out of his car and Max did the same, looking around at where they were.

"I don't want to tell you more. It will corrupt you," the cop leaned over to Max, and looked him deep in the eye, "It will eat away at you, like an ulcer."

"That there are people out there who can... who can..."

The cop spat on the ground beside them bitterly, his saliva brown with coffee. "Who're freaks," he said bluntly.

The cop, who Max later found was named Thomas Arkane, a landowner (he had inherited it) tycoon who worked as a cop because he liked the job, unlike his collueges who did it out of a paycheck mostly.

Thomas dropped him off at St. Mary's orphanage, and told Mariah he was to be given the best care. He slid a hundred pound note to Mariah that Max's sharp eyes caught easily.

His mother had died and a dog attempted to eat her, and a police officer shot the dog, sprayed dog blood all over my mother-Jesus!

He wanted to curl up in his blankets and cry.

The woman the cop had given him to looked tired with baggy eyes and a look that said, where can I stow you away and forget about you?

Max allowed himself to be lead to a room near the attic. He noticed a white line running across Mariah's neck, a sort of burn mark that never healed properly and left a thick band of skin as a scar.

Max didn't allow himself to think about that, or think about much of anything. He set his eyes firmly on his cheap shoes that his mother had bought on a sale for three pounds, surprisingly in the grocery store where they sold all kinds of things now, not just food.

"We don't have many empty rooms," Mariah was saying, her voice distant and cold, like falling glass-

(the dog jumped through the goddamn window. What dog does that?)

"You're going to share one with a boy named Tom Riddle. He's quiet and likes to keep to himself. Don't disturb him." Her tone was mechanical, as if she had given this speech numerous times before.

"Okay," Max said in a monotone. He didn't care right now about his roommate, it was the furthest thing from his mind as they ascended the stairs leading to the attic.

Mariah swung the door open, to reveal a simple chair and desk overlooking the backyard of the orphanage from a wide square window with brown panes cracked and chipped, paint scrapping off and-

This place is a dump, Max thought as his eyes swept the room. It landed on the other bed: Tom Riddle was tall for his age, ten years old. He wore a sweatshit, plain, grey, nondescript. Everything about Tom seemed normal except those cold, black eyes that bored into Max, who took an unconscious step back. Mariah cleared her throat behind her, but Max could tell she was scared too.

There was something off about Tom. He simply stared at them with unblinking eyes, absorbing them, paying the highest degree of scrutiny and attention like a hunter-

"Hi," Tom stood up and smiled. He held out a hand to shake. "My name's Tom-"

Max grabbed the hand and squeezed. He thought of the cop's gun, squeezing the trigger at the wolf, and thought of the man who had killed his mother, and then Tom's face superimposed on that of the man because he knew in his heart, the way one knows up is up and down is down and how to balance on a bicycle that Tom was one of them, a wizard, a goddamn magic-wielding, wand totting (although he called it in his mind a stick) demon slave.

Thomas Arkane said if he should ever meet one he should blow its brains out.

Tom and Max eyed each other and Max felt that Tom had taken his full measure, far more quickly than Max was comfortable with. The hate was palpatable, and out in the open.

Mariah said, "Is this, err, is this okay with you, Tom? I can move him to another room if you like?" She was oddly servile to Tom and although a part of Max was scared, another part - a far larger piece of the pie, rose up within him howling in terrible rage and agony.

"No, not at all, Mariah, this boy is a fine room mate to be with." Tom glanced darkly at Max.

Max knew it would be war then, one or the other. They wouldn't leave the orphanage alive together anyways.

That just wasn't going to happen, not while Max could remember the green light and hear the cop's words from memory hissing in his brains, "You have to just blow their brains out. There's really no other way."

Max settled into the bunk, and a lady brought him a suitcase packed with clothes later in the day.

He hadn't spoken a word to his roommate who absorbed himself in reading a thick leather bound book.

That was fine. Just peachy.

He looked over to Tom Riddle, caught his eye. Their eye contact lasted for what seemed like forever, a boiling miasma of childlike hate, spite, and real anger.

I'm going to kill you, Max thought.

He had an uncomfortable feeling Tom was thinking the same thing.

Chapter Four

Tom met John on the seventeenth of October at Hog's head, a meeting arranged by owl mail.

Hogshead in those days was a little run down shack of a bar that stood alone on a cold prarie type land with very little construction in sight besides the old harvest store where Adam Belane sold potions ingreidents, and an owlery in the far right toward the docks where the boats went to and fro Hogwarts and Hogsmaede. The Inn was a jaunty little place with a billboard in front of it that had faded words Tom didn't bother to read as he strode into the bar.

His wand, as always, lay tightly clasped between his belt buckle and his skin. He felt the coolness of his yew wand with a certain level of sadness, if he had ever felt that emotion before or any emotion besides... besides... what? Tom turned, stared at the waiter with the large black beard and said, "Hagrid, is that you?"

Hagrid was a half giant. He lived near Hogwarts in a hut he had built with his own bare hands and a little help from his umbrella, which contained the shards of the wand that used to belong to him. Tom had framed Hagrid for a crime. He remembered the past with a half hidden smile.

"Hello, Tom," Hagrid called in his gruff voice, bounding over to where Tom stood, scanning the room. "Mind if I guide you to your table?"

"Certainly," Tom said, "And we can catch up too. What have you been doing for a living lately, I thought the Headmaster offered you a position as groundskeeper."

"He did, and I took it too but its summer. I need money for a little project of mine..." Hagrid's voice faded away as Tom intently focused on his beady black eyes, calling his legilimency powers to the fore as he peered into Hagrid's mind.

("I'm thinking about setting up a den for the lions and tigers of the muggle world, right there in Hogwarts, and a seperate den showing their magical counterparts, kind of like a comparison you know.")

Images flashed in front of Tom's face as he sat down at a table that had a good view of the door way so he could see John Carver's approach. Hagrid kept talking, and all went numb to Tom as if he had lost the sensations of his surroundings. He intently focused on Hagrid and searched, using his mind as a scalpel to slice away the memories he didn't require, anything relating to Albus Dumlbedore.

("I think it will be really costly though but its going to be worth it. Dumbledore says it will teach the kids something and he's a great man to take advice from so I'm working here at Hogshead part time. Dumbledore's brother owns it and got me a job-")

He saw Hagrid as Hagrid saw himself, a lone pitiful creature who failed at living the ideal life and sought aid from the only person who would give it to him, the great Albus Dumbledore. Hagrid admired his headmaster very much, not because of his age (and thus, in Hagrid's simple mind, his wisdom) but because Albus was a kind man and he would listen.

Hagrid talked about the acrumentala to Albus Dumbledore as they sat in an empty classroom. The Hogwarts children were having lunch then, and the hallway on the fourth floor was pretty much abandoned. Hagrid explained how it couldn't have been him, couldn't have been the acrumentala like Tom told Headmaster Dippet but-

And then Dumbledore's blue eyes widened, that serene twinkling look of happiness dissapeared to form a pool of silent determination and when Tom saw that through Hagrid's memory he felt, for the first time in his life, a shiver, a bolt of fear.

It surprised him. Tom broke eye contact with Hagrid, who was chatting about the latest quidditch scores, and turned to read the menu. He ordered chicken lentil soup and a ham sandwich, with a cup of English black tea. Hagrid nodded happily and went off to the kitchens near the back of Hogs head, where Tom noticed, because he was a very good observer, several cobwebs hanging along the edges of the ceiling. Tom hoped the food would not be diseased, but with Hagrid being hired, he couldn't be sure.

His mind turned to Dumbledore and he almost didn't notice, when ten minutes later John Carver walked into the Inn, wearing a black fur coat that stretched to his knees, and carrying in his left hand a small golden rod of some kind. Tom glanced at it curiously as John's eyes searchingly swept the room. There were inscriptions in Greek written on them.

John found Tom and sat in front of him, hastily ordered the daily special (cabbage soup with garlic bread), and said, "Boy do I have something for you."

Tom pretended nonchalance, but inside he was curious about the golden rod. "What do you have?" He asked.

"An offer," John said, and Tom thought to himself I have an offer of my own but I'll hear you out first. Nothing to be gained being hasty. John looks like a business man and nothing more.

John went on to tell him the properties of the golden rod, how it would bring good luck and blah and blah. Tom didn't believe the hype for a second, he usually never did, his cold precise mind coming up with alternate explanations instantly with every enthusiastic claim John made about his artefact.

Tom examined the rod and determined, with a slow careful look, that it wasn't gold. The shine wasn't quite right. And when he pressed his thumb, the metal didn't yield at all. Tom had strong fingers, strong thumb grips. Gold would have bent slightly, this did not. Already he was rethinking his decision of calling John over here.

"So what does this do when I activate the inscriptions?" Tom asked. "I don't need good luck as much as I need powerful items that have a noticable, palpatable effect." Tom put down the wand and turned to look at John, in his eye. He wondered if he should use legilimency again but he was tired. Dumbledore tired him, even from this distance when they were minds and leagues apart.

Dumbledore: the man had his hooks in every venture Tom participated in and even now watched Tom's every move like a hawk watching a fat rat try to squeeze into a tiny mud hole.

"Why I don't really know," John admitted, "How to activate the inscriptions, I mean, but I'd say, hmm..." John poured over the rod, turning it between his fingers, "Perhaps if we try to say the runes on it out loud."

"I can't read them," Tom said, "I've never seen the like of it before."

John shrugged his shoulders, "Neither have I, but my uncle says its powerful and he's good for his word."

Tom changed the subject to the weather and when he judged the time was ripe he brought his proposition. "I want a wand made," Tom said and leaned back. He picked up his tea cup and took a slow, long sip, letting the liquid roll in his mouth like he was gargling, except in a polite, gentlemanly way. He could have been tasting expensive wine. He stuck to tea though, never was attracted to drugs beside a bit of caffiene.

"It has to be just the right kind, because I need you to alter a wand I already possess, my own-" He hesitated to say baby, but he knew without a doubt he was half a man without his wand.

"Please do go on," John said with a smile, "Wands and I are like fish and water or sky and birds or-"

Tom nodded, "I get it," he said distractedly as he thought about his basilisk, Nasha, and what he wanted to do with her. Nasha had been a loyal pet, but she was holed in the Chamber of Secrets, much too big to slide down the pipes and much too noticable to go through the passageways. Right now, she was no use to Tom as he was out of Hogwarts.

Perhaps if he got that job, the defense against the dark arts post, then something may be done but... Tom could see no reason to let Nasha go to waste and her body was powerful, saturated with thousands of years of magic, accumulating in her scales, in her eyes, in her teeth and fangs and venom. Everything about Nasha was a container of pure magical power. Tom wanted to use it and though he knew it would to most be reprehensive to treat a pet such a way, he didn't feel a thing, not a bit of remorse ate at him.

But he wondered, a stray thought rising to the forefronts of his mind, whether Nasha would like being killed for parts.

He squashed that thought and continued explaining the wand he wanted John to make for him.

"It will be done as you say," John said and got up, held out his hand to shake. Tom didn't want to touch the man but he forced himself to shake hands.

"I'll need about ten to twenty thousand galleons, initial fee," John continued, "And depending on further expenditures..."

Tom knew instinctively the man was a cheat and a liar, and the impulse to pull out his yew wand and curse the man with the hundreds of dark spells swimming in his brain was strong but he set it aside for now. He had no intention of rewarding the man whatsoever, but for now... He pulled out a black bag of galleons from within the heavy folds of his winter robes (even though it was summer, he felt cold after he had made that... thing, that horcrux and lost a bit of his humanity while doing so) and tossed it to John.

John caught it gracefully, and had the good manners not to look inside. "There's five thousand galleons," Tom said, hiding his bitterness. It was half his savings. He had earned it when he went on an expedition to the Amazon rainforest and found a particularly rare species of frog, from which he harvested the oil that the skin glands released - a very poisonous, dangerous oil - and sold it to Abraxus Malfoy for fifteen thousand galleons. That was the beginning of a mutually benefiting relationship and Tom had to wonder if John would be an agreeable partner in the future.

When he finally reached home, a home away from the muggle and magical society, he was dead tired because something about using Nasha for parts bothered him in a strange, undescribable way as if hearing the buzz of an insect in his ear, that kind of annoyance.

Tom Riddle had two homes, one of them he had stolen from his birth father and grandparents (avada kedavra and a faked will does wonders for one's financial situation), and the other had been gifted to him by the Minister of Magic himself, Abraxus Malfoy, for outstanding achievement in the field of magic. Tom Riddle had written several papers in a wide variety of subjects, and had shown demonstrations right in the middle of Diagon Alley, conjuring red and gold dragons for the Gryffindors and the badgers for the Hufflepuffs, doing feats of magic long thought to be archaic, impossible. Abraxus publicly hailed him as the next Albus Dumbledore. In return, Tom said to a reporter that the Malfoy family had an honor about them, a sort of dignity he didn't often see in others, and that the Minister the Wizarding World of Britain had had done a great job so far in seeing to France's latest aggressive tactics to gain greater control of the Mediterranian trade routes and Germany's newest army that rode on flying carpets.

Tom apparrated in front of a large four bedroom house in the middle of a fairly empty of civilization land. He went to the study room of his house, a room filled with rows of shelves carrying heavy textbooks dealing with all kinds of subjects on magic. He sat down on a green chair that overlooked the fields stretching behind the house from a window. The fields yielded to reveal tall cedars.

Tom said aloud, after three minutes of deep thought, "It's time for the world to know who I really am, who Lord Voldemort is... It's time for the world to learn the meaning of fear." He stood up, and leaned against the window, breathing in fresh forest scented air that breezed through the open window.

"The wand," he said, "It all comes down to the wand."


End file.
